


The Way of Fear and Hope

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Concussions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feels, Guilt, Light Angst, Married Couple, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, One Shot, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: I was brooding about what comes between the final battle of the film and the final scene of the film, and thenavanisuggested that I might try to write something from Jalaluddin's perspective (challenging, since he is so resolutely self-contained.) This, then, is the aftermath of the battle, with its political decisions to be taken and personal consequences to be navigated.
Relationships: Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar & Chughtai Khan, Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar/Mariam-uz-Zamani | Jodhaa Bai, Mariam-uz-Zamani | Jodhaa Bai & Sujamal (b.c.1533)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	The Way of Fear and Hope

**Author's Note:**

> A few preliminary notes on language: I don't speak Hindi, and so have relied on perhaps clumsy research for the transliterations and translations here. "Zindabad" is the most common English rendering I've found for জিন্দাবাদ. I _think_ that the affectionate term bhai-sa (भाई with honorific suffix) would only be used in addressing Sujamal, and not in talking about him to Jalaluddin, but if that's wrong, then I beg for indulgence and correction.

The shouts of two armies echo around him. “Zindabad!” He turns his back on the men who marched against him, and paces — carefully steady, carefully slow — back to his tent, confirmed as the emperor of Hindustan. He ignores the sensation that the earth is tilting under his feet. Chughtai Khan follows him.

Within the comparative dimness of the tent, the roar of the armies becomes like that of the sea: all-encompassing, a reminder of a remorseless presence.

Jalaluddin swallows past the grittiness in his throat. “Well,” he says wryly. “This is what all our strategy has come to: that armies can be appeased by the entertainment of watching me fight.”

“Sharifuddin is a mad dog,” says Chughtai Khan. _And you were mad to agree to his terms_ goes unspoken.

“And yet much bloodshed has been averted,” observes the emperor mildly. He begins to pace, over the protest of stiffening muscles. “I do not often ignore your advice.”

“Almost never,” grumbles Chughtai Khan, half-appeased.

“Sharifuddin will need to be dealt with. Have him put under guard — picked men — and escorted to the borders.”

“It shall be done.”

“Tell my sister… tell my sister that she may return to Agra if she wishes, but that I will not see her today.” This Chugtai Khan acknowledges with a bow.

There is a movement at the flap of the tent, and a servant enters with a bowl of water. Jalaluddin looks in vain for a swirl of emerald silk, a flash of orange as bright as a parrot’s wing. Outside the tent stand the royal guards. For an instant, Jalaluddin has a vertiginous vision of a future filled with whispers: _Ah, yes, the mad old emperor. Sees an assassin in every tree — and in some friends. They say he was betrayed when he was young…_ He swallows.

“The guard…”

“Was disguised, your excellency,” says Chughtai Khan. “A disguise only.” He says it soothingly, which suggests to the emperor that his appearance of calm is less perfectly maintained than it should be.

The water is warm; it and the cloth against his face are soothing too, though they do nothing for the pounding in his head or the ringing in his ears. He wipes firmly at one temple, grimaces at the resulting mess of blood and sand.

“The imperial physicians…” murmurs Chughtai Khan.

“Not necessary.” He turns to the servant. “Water to wash more fully, the armorer, and fresh garments.” The man bows deeply and retreats.

“The army,” says the emperor. “Sharifuddin’s army.”

“Yes, excellency,” says Chughtai Khan, and Jalaluddin knows he has been silent too long.

“Can you make half a day’s march with them by tonight?” Chughtai Khan bows. “Good.” Yes, they had cheered him; but they had also marched here as rebels, and now stand unoccupied and dangerous mere bowshots away. He knows that, to Chughtai Khan, he does not have to say this aloud. 

“Tomorrow,” says Jalaluddin, and resumes his pacing. “Tomorrow, you may have those who will swear their oaths of fealty return, in the company of those who have remained loyal; take a regiment with you.”

“Yes, Shahenshah.” He is reassured by the warmth in the old campaigner’s voice.

Jalaluddin pauses, and rolls his shoulders back. “I don’t suppose that you would care for becoming a governor?”

“Certainly not,” says Chughtai Khan dryly.

He smiles. “Sorry I would be to lose you — and your advice — in the court. But I need someone whom I trust in Sharifuddin’s place, and truly to read the characters of men is a thing of great difficulty.”

Chughtai Khan inclines his head. “I will remain there until your excellency sends for me.”

“Good.” It is one necessary thing arranged. He turns to the armorer, divests himself of the hauberk that will have to be cleaned and repaired. The linen under it clings; sand scatters, not quite noiselessly, as he strips to the waist. He washes quickly, dispassionately noting where bruises have begun to form. Finally he immerses his head in the basin, shuts his eyes against the wave of dizziness as he emerges. When he opens them again, he is staring at his feet. It takes him a moment to realize what he is looking at; when he does, he moves backwards too quickly, almost staggering.

“Get those rugs out of here.” He whirls to muster the servants in turn — the tent spins — and sees fear in their faces. “Get them out! Why have they not been removed?” It is not, of course, a question that expects an answer; it is a demand that expects obedience. And he is obeyed, the carpets with their bloodstains rolled up and carried away, quickly and silently.

Jalaluddin knows that he is breathing too hard. And he knows that this was no politic show of imperial anger, but impotent rage against Allah’s fellow-creatures, even against suffering that must lie also within the divine will. But he has misjudged two brothers, and lost them both, and he cannot bear to look at the blood of the man he mistrusted. Slowly he dresses.

“We have kept you too long,” he says formally to Chughtai Khan; “you have earned your leisure, and we have deprived you even of that.”

“The evening brings time enough for rest,” says Chughtai Khan easily. “I,” he adds pointedly, “have fought no battles.”

“Very well, old friend. I will take your advice… though you have not quite ventured to give it.” Chughtai Khan smiles — it feels like an undeserved grace — and departs to fulfill his duty. 

Jalaluddin is left alone with the light of the desert, the heat of the day, the faint chink and creak of the guards’ movements outside the tent. He resumes his pacing; once he stops, he knows, moving will become more difficult, and there is one thing more he has to do this day. He beckons to the first servant who dares again to show his face.

“Have the company commanders come to me. And see if the empress is well enough to receive visitors.” The man lacks a talent for impassivity; he raises his eyebrows, and then fails to hide a quick smirk. Well. If his inference leads to rumor, it may not be such a bad thing. Always providing, of course, that the empress herself does not take offense at it. Jalaluddin frowns.

The audience with the company commanders is blessedly straightforward. He has only to welcome them, to thank them, to give the order for making camp. He apologizes, as gracefully as he can, for the fact that their preparations were, in the end, superfluous. This imperial gesture is in turn graciously accepted; he gives his assent to the suggestion of a celebratory feast. It will mean noise, and probably drunkenness, but surely the soldiers deserve some expression of relief. Not today must they prepare their souls for death. And Hindustan stands, defended and glorious.

The commanders depart, making their salaams, and he wonders if, perhaps, he should simply give way to exhaustion and give up on the hope of seeing her. She has lost a beloved brother, and that is at least partly his fault. She has come here — dazzlingly, inexplicably — only to have that brother die under her hands. She has said that she loves him. But he cannot help but fear that their tentative understanding has been damaged, the memory of their mutual delight somehow tainted.

“The empress,” says the servant, “is well.” He retreats again, making obeisance. Jalaluddin takes a deep breath.

He goes unpreceded and unannounced, the guards following. His inquiry will have warned her, as well as given her the chance to refuse his presence, had she so wished. Still, it is with a sense of trepidation that he stands before her tent. He wishes helplessly, fruitlessly, that things might be different: that they might be alone; that they might be in a familiar place; that he might at least be spared the dizziness with which he contends. But all lies within the will of the All-Merciful.

“Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem,” murmurs Jalaluddin, and enters the tent.

Even through her veil, he can see that she has wept. She sits rigid and miserable, self-contained, and he is unhappily reminded of their wedding night.

“Disperse,” says Jodhaa, and the attendants melt away. He waits. She regards him very steadily, but says nothing.

“Jodhaa,” he says, and stops. He draws breath before continuing. “I misjudged him,” he says, “and I have no right to beg your forgiveness.”

For an instant, he sees what he thinks is surprise in her face; he tells himself that he must be mistaken. “He misjudged you too,” she says, “and he died for it.”

Jalaluddin swallows. “He had ridden to warn me of treachery, himself betrayed.” No good, of course, can come of telling her this, of telling her that the man she loved all her life died for his sake. But she deserves to be told the truth. 

Jodhaa raises her hand to wipe away tears, and his heart turns over. “He was always nobler than he was wise.”

For what seems a long time, there is silence in the tent. The emperor does not move. “Jalal.” He starts, so unfamiliar is his name on her lips. Wordless he blinks at her. “Approach.” He obeys, trying to keep shock from showing in his face. When he stands before her — still a supplicant, still awaiting her pleasure — Jodhaa looks up at him, and gestures to the carpet beside her. “Sit down.”

When he does so, it is stiffly and awkwardly. But it is, he finds, a relief to be next to her, close enough to feel her warmth, close enough to catalogue beloved features. She is pale, but valiantly composed, this daughter of the Rajputs. What she does next startles him: she raises her hand to his temple. He shuts his eyes, and does not flinch away, and does not lean into the contact. 

“Sujamal asked your pardon,” she says, very gently. “If forgiveness were needed, how could I withhold mine?” He dares to open his eyes, and she is smiling, though there are still tears on her face. She moves her hand to the nape of his neck, and he bows his head beneath her touch.

“My lord,” says Jodhaa, and he trembles. “My lord, come.” He thinks, confusedly, that he cannot be closer to her, their knees almost touching. And then Jodhaa takes his hand in hers, and draws him down to her, so that he lies with his head in her lap.

Jalaluddin decides not to question this. If it is weakness to accept it, he will do penance for it later. For now, there is Jodhaa’s scent around him, her hand in his hair. He breathes deeply, focuses on the soft jingling of her bracelets, drowning out the echoes of steel on steel.

“Father told me,” she says softly.

“Hm?”

“That you persuaded him to offer Sujamal his share in the succession.”

It is increasingly difficult to think about anything but the movements of her fingers, but he answers: “It was no more than his deserving.”

“My father does not like to admit he was wrong,” says Jodhaa, with what he thinks might be the shadow of amusement. “I would have liked to see how you managed it.” After a pause, she adds: “Did you speak very poetically about kingship?”

“Do you know me so well?”

“Perhaps I do.”

He smiles. With his eyes closed, he can still see too-bright sand, the rage in his brother-in-law’s face, the spearpoint a handsbreadth above him. He opens them, and there is Jodhaa, sorrowful and tender.

“Is it very bad?” she asks.

He blinks at her, uncomprehending. “Is what…?”

Gently she draws one finger across his brow. “You forget, I think, that I know what you look like when you are in pain.”

Jalaluddin does not answer; he does not think he needs to. He simply turns his face into the warmth of her waist and, emboldened, reaches to half-embrace her. He can feel her sigh. She does not speak, but neither does she cease from running her hand through his hair. He reflects idly that there is probably still sand in it. 

“I came to stop the battle,” says Jodhaa. Reflexively he tightens his hand on her hip, as if he could now protect her from running into danger. “I did not expect you to have already done so.”

“They were Sharifuddin’s terms,” he murmurs, and only when Jodhaa’s hand stops abruptly does he realize his mistake.

“Husband,” says Jodhaa, with generations of inherited command in her voice. He tilts his head to look up at her. “He meant to kill you,” she says. “Having failed in assassination, he wanted to kill you by his own hand.”

“I… yes.” He feels her quickening breath even before her sharp inhalation warns him that she is on the verge of speech.

“I thought,” says Jodhaa, with an acerbity that surprises him, “that it might be the divine will for me to prevent the clash of armies. I thought that perhaps it was this great purpose that becoming your wife was to allow me to accomplish.” He goes very still, holding even his breath. Jodhaa sighs. “But perhaps it is my duty, instead, to remind you to have a care for your own person.”

Having lowered his eyes under her rebuke, he ventures to regard her once more; she gazes at him very gravely, but the spark of her anger seems already to have died away. “Could I have refused,” he asks softly, “when so much was at stake?”

She makes a small gesture of negation. “I have no desire,” she says, “to see you close to death yet again.”

Jalaluddin raises himself on one elbow. “Inshallah, we shall now have peace.” He does not say aloud: _I do not deserve your fear._ But she smiles, a little sadly, and he thinks that perhaps she hears what he cannot utter.

“Yes,” says Jodhaa simply. And then, lacing her fingers with his, she lies down beside him, tucking herself into his side. He does not move, stunned by the spectacle of her trust. “Lord,” she says, affection and irritation coloring the title of respect, “rest.”

He swallows, and marvels at the goodness of Allah in granting him this woman for a wife. He finds himself thinking, a little wildly, that the prayers for his long life should include prayers for hers, as its necessary concomitant. Jodhaa shifts her weight, sighing discontentedly, and he obeys the wordless request, carefully lowering himself down next to her. He falls asleep breathing the scent of her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from sayings of Jalaluddin, according to the _Akbarnama_ : "Whoever walks in the way of fear and hope, his temporal and spiritual affairs will prosper." That text also contributes to my depiction of his overwhelming sense of responsibility as emperor ("The errors of others it is his part to remedy, but his own lapses who may correct?") He had a lot of theological angst about the will of Allah, which makes an appearance here too.
> 
> It's my theory that Jalaluddin is concussed after the battle with Sharifuddin because Sharifuddin fights dirty, and he consistently goes for the head, dealing blow after blow, even when other strategies might seem more efficient. He fights like a man who wants his opponent bewildered and broken and possibly blinded and _then_ dead. Clearly I have feelings about this.


End file.
